


On the Couch

by flibbertygigget



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Gen, Major Character Injury, POV Molly Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: The first time Molly Weasley meets Severus Snape, he’s 19 years old and dripping blood on her floor at two in the morning.





	On the Couch

The first time Molly Weasley meets Severus Snape, he’s 19 years old and dripping blood on her floor at two in the morning. He sways as he stumbles over to the table, depositing three small bottles there.

“Make sure Dumbledore gets those,” he says, voice hoarse.

“You’re bleeding,” Molly says. He looks down at the floor, where there’s now quite a lot of blood pooling.

“Obviously,” he says. He takes out his wand and waves it, vanishing most of the blood spots. “I – Apologies. I should be going.”

“Nonsense.” She takes his arm and guides him over to the couch. It’s only when he’s halfway there that he, rather belatedly, tries to pull away, but Molly has had to deal with sick 2-year-olds and 8-year-olds who think that divebombing garden gnomes is a good idea. “Don’t you even think of Apparating without getting that wound looked at, young man. You’ll just splince yourself.” She begins to undo his buttons, and he tries to slap away her hands pathetically. “ _Honestly_ -“

“I’m hardly a child,” he grouses. “I don’t need your help.”

“Do I have to use a sticking charm on your hands like I do on my twins? Sit still and stop fighting me. I have no intention of allowing you to bleed out tonight.”

“You don’t even know what I am,” he mutters.

“And whose fault is that? People generally introduce themselves when showing up in strange houses at all hours of the night.”

“I – That’s not what I meant!” She gives him a deeply unimpressed look, which only grows deeper when she slips the robes from the boy’s thin shoulders and sees the deep cut that nearly bisects his torso. “I could be anyone! You don’t even know my name! Why the hell don’t you have better security? Anyone could just waltz in here and kill you in your sleep. Didn’t you say that you have kids here?”

“I have six sons,” Molly says. She mutters a spell, frowning when it only closes the very ends of the long wound.

“It’s a curse wound, it’s going to respond poorly to healing spells,” the boy says. “And honestly, six? At a time like this? And I thought Lily was nuts just for getting _married_ with the Dar- with You-Know-Who around.”

“Oh, so you know the Potters. You do look about the right age.” The boy looks furious with himself. “Oh, don’t scowl so. Nearly everyone goes to Hogwarts these days, so it’s a fair assumption to make. Now, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he says, “and you don’t need to know.” Molly says the spell a few more times, the open wound slowly becoming a thick, gnarled scar.

“Nonsense. You’re part of the Order, of course your name’s my business.”

“And that is why the Dark Lord is winning,” he says, slurring his words slightly. Now that he’s no longer in pain, he’s rapidly falling asleep, listing over to one side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Do you know my name?” Molly asks, suddenly curious.

“No. Don’t need to. I just go wherever Dumbledore tells me to go. Portkey, usually.”

“That can’t be good for your massive open wounds,” Molly says dryly. He snorts. “Lie down, young man.”

“No, I,” he yawns, “I can go.”

“Of course you can’t,” Molly says. “Now _rest_.” He looks like he wants to argue more, but he’s practically lying down already. Molly summons a blanket and drapes it over him. “It’s Molly Weasley, by the way.”

“Mrs. Weasley,” the boy mumbles into the arm of the couch. “Sorry. M’ name’s class’fied inf’rmation.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Molly says, patting his shoulder and fully intending to grill him at breakfast. But the next morning he’s gone, with only the bottles of memories and carefully folded blanket as evidence that he was ever there at all.

* * *

Molly’s only just gotten dinner on the table when she hears the knock at the door. She opens it to find the boy, thinner than the last time she saw him and shaking so hard she could swear his bones could break. He collapses forward, only half catching himself on the doorframe, and she suddenly finds herself with an armful of teenager.

“Sorry,” he gasps out.

_He’s far too light,_ she thinks.

“I – I shouldn’t be here, I should have gone to Dumbledore’s contact as soon as – I just wanted to-“

“We’re having roast chicken,” Molly says, carrying him inside and leading him to the couch. “I can fix you a plate.” He flushes, torrid red painting the tops of his cheekbones and the base of his neck.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says, only slightly steadier. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, there’s plenty for everyone,” says Molly. “I will warn you, though, that dinner is hardly a quiet affair here at the Burrow. I have six boys, and the oldest is only eight.”

“I – That’s fine, but I don’t want to-“

“Didn’t I just tell you that there’s plenty for everyone.” He’s still shaking horribly, and Molly gives him a critical scan. “What happened?”

“Nothing you can help with,” he says. At her look, he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Honest! It’s just the Cruciatus, and I’ve already taken all the potions that I can for it.”

“ _Just_ the Cruciatus?” she says. She wants to question him more, but at that moment five of her children come racing down the stairs, Arthur following them with her sixth. When Arthur sees the boy, he stops short, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Er, hello,” he says. He shifts Ron to his other arm and sticks out his hand. After an awkward moment, the boy takes it. “Arthur Weasley. And you are?”

“Being forced to have dinner with you, apparently,” says the boy smoothly. Arthur looks over at her curiously, and Molly nods at him encouragingly.

“Right, then. Do you need a chair, or are you going to be eating on the couch?” The boy looks more confused than Arthur, with is truly an accomplishment.

“Er…” The boy is interrupted by the appearance of a large, silvery phoenix in the center of the living room. Molly and Arthur are, of course, well acquainted with Dumbledore’s preferred method of communication with specific Order members, and they quickly shush the children.

“Severus, use the Portkey I left you at your earliest convenience. I need your report,” says the voice of Dumbledore. The phoenix disappears, and the boy (Severus, that must be his name) scowls at the place where it had been.

“Bloody Gryffindor,” he mutters, and then he shoots a guilty look at Molly. “Er, sorry, Mrs. Weasley.”

“It’s Molly, dear, and it’s fine. Although if any of my sons,” she gives the boys at the table a long look and they endeavor to look innocent, “decide to emulate that language, they will no doubt be getting their mouths washed out with soap.”

“Shouldn’t you send Dumbledore a message?” Arthur says. “It sounded urgent.”

“The Headmaster needs to learn that not everyone is at his beck and call,” Severus says under his breath. Still, he takes out his wand. “ _Expecto Patronum_.” After a moment, the light takes the form of a doe. Severus lets the doe nuzzle his hand, his lips quirking slightly. “Congratulations, you’ve just killed me, or at least you would have if you sent your message half an hour ago. I have nothing urgent to report, and I’ll get you your information when I’m able.” He scratches the doe behind her ears. “Albus Dumbledore.” The doe prances out the window.

“So, you’re the spy that Dumbledore’s been talking about for the past six months, eh?” Arthur says. Severus glares. Not at anyone or anything in particular, he just glares.

“Is Dumbledore actively trying to kill me? Or is he just a Gryffindor without the barest hint of subtlety?”

“You’re a spy? Cool!” Charlie says. Severus looks at the 6-year-old suspiciously, only to jump slightly when Molly thrusts a plate into his hands.

“That’s not-“ Molly glares at him. “Thank you, Mrs. Weas- Molly.”

“Better,” Molly says lightly. “Now get to your seats, boys, or it’ll all go cold.”

(Despite his protests, Severus is eventually bullied into staying the night on the couch. The next morning he quietly asks her to make sure that his status as a spy doesn’t get beyond her family, and she gives her word. It’s the least she can do, really.)

* * *

Ron’s 15 months old the next time that Severus stays overnight on the couch. He’s been to the Burrow a few times, of course, leaving the vials of memories for Dumbledore and being bullied into staying for a meal by Molly. But he seems to have found ways to avoid being tortured by You-Know-Who, much to Molly’s relief.

Tonight, it seems, is an exception, though Molly can’t imagine what could have put the boy in such a state.

He isn’t shaking. She knows what the Cruciatus does to the boy, and he isn’t shaking. She checks him over for wounds, for curses, for any evidence of You-Know-Who, but there’s nothing there. Nothing physical, in any case.

Severus looks dead. Oh, he’s breathing, following meekly as she leads him to the couch and checks him over. That’s what’s most alarming, really. In all her experience with the boy, she has never known him to accept help voluntarily. Not that any of this seems voluntary. No, it seems as though Severus is on autopilot, usually expressive face and fierce, glittering eyes dull and blank as she looks him over.

“What happened?” she says. He takes a small bottle from his robe and, hand trembling, brings his wand to his temple. Molly grabs his wrist, stopping him. “No, not like that. Just tell me what You-Know-Who did.”

“The Dark Lord-“ His voice creaks out, and he pauses, wetting his lips. “The Dark Lord was displeased with the intelligence I provided. He believed that I had been hiding something from him.”

“What did he do to you?”

“He – I – He accessed my mind.” Despite the Severus’s tone, as dull and dry as a Ministry report, Molly knows that “accessed” didn’t convey half of what You-Know-Who has done to the boy. “I was able to keep Him from the – the relevant memories. My cover is intact.”

“You poor dear,” Molly says. Severus flinches, actually flinches, and then he bends forward slightly, the slightest crack appearing in his deathmask. “You poor, poor boy.”

“Mrs. Weasley, I-“

“Don’t even think about it,” Molly says firmly. “You need a proper meal, some good company, and sleep. Even without what that horrible man did, you look like you’re half dead.” Severus nods slightly, whole body trembling. It wasn’t like when he had been struck by the Cruciatus. It was something more integral, more vulnerable. Molly feels dirty seeing it, violating him as surely as You-Know-Who had.

She shushes her children when they traipse in. The poor boy deserves so much more than the little food and rest she’s able to give him now.

* * *

It’s been thirteen years since she last saw Severus. Oh, she’s seen Professor Snape plenty of times: about Charlie’s habit of bringing ridiculous creatures into Potions class, about the twins’ pranks, about Ron arriving at Hogwarts in a flying car. But there’s a distinct difference between the respected Potions Master and Severus the Spy.

She becomes reacquainted with the latter during that horrible summer after Ron’s fourth year.

“Sweet Merlin,” she gasps out when she sees him in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, struggling to stem the flow of blood from his leg. He jumps, looking up at her like he’s been caught at something he shouldn’t have been doing, but relaxes when he recognizes her.

“Molly,” he says, turning his attention back to his leg. Molly can see the pure white bone poking out at an odd angle, and it makes her feel ill. “Apologies. I should have gone to a more secure location.”

“Nonsense,” she says. “Although I do think that you ought to see a Healer about that. There’s only so much I can do.” She kneels by his leg, studying it. She murmurs a spell, and the bone snaps back into place with a sickening crack. Severus only lets out a bitten-off gasp of pain. She begins to close the wound, but a shake of his head stops her.

“No, He’ll want to see evidence of his handiwork,” Severus says. Molly’s fingers tighten around her wand painfully.

“Bastard,” she mutters.

“He knows he can’t punish me so well when school is in session. He still believes that the Headmaster is… unaware of my extracurricular activities, and He wants it to stay that way. Best to remind me of my place now, so that He’ll have his spy later on.”

“My God,” Molly says. “I don’t know how you do it, Severus. If I had him here, I don’t know what I’d do to him.” Severus snorts. Despite the pain that he has to be in, he seems to be in good spirits. “How did that happen, anyways? It seems a bit mundane for him.”

“Someone found a way to modify the Cruciatus, localize it. I’d put my Galleons on Lucius. It allows for much the same torture without having to worry about completely blasting the victim’s mind to shreds. And, apparently, can have some physical affects if kept on long enough.” He smirks. “When this is all over, I’ll have to thank the innovator. It is infinitely easier to shield my mind from Him when only part of me is under the curse. Still, I shall have to tell the Headmaster about this development next time we meet.”

“Severus…” Molly trails off. It breaks her heart to hear how he talks about it. He’s been tortured, manipulated, and mind raped, and all he can say is that he’s grateful. Grateful because it could have somehow been _worse_. It makes her feel sick, in a way she hasn’t since the last war, since her brothers died and her friends went into hiding and she’d had to watch the boy she’d half adopted fall apart on her couch. “How long before you have to go back?” He shrugs.

“I don’t know. He could call at any time. He’s been – He’s been keeping me close. Been keeping all of us close, really. There aren’t many He trusts now.”

“Stay, then.” He blinks at her. “For the night, at least. I can’t imagine that you get much sleep around He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“No, I can’t say I do.” He’s staring at her. “I – You don’t have to put me up. I mean, I have somewhere to go, even with-“ Molly snorts, cutting off his protests.

“Nonsense,” she says. “I’ll want to have a look at that leg in the morning, anyways. We can’t have you getting any more injured than you already are.” He looks baffled, but he doesn’t protest any further as she leads him to the sofa in the sitting room.

* * *

When she hears that Severus killed Dumbledore, she doesn’t know what to believe.

Harry had seen it. Harry was a witness. If he said that Severus had killed the Headmaster, Molly sees no reason why it wouldn’t be so. But she doesn’t want it to be true.

She knows that it’s stupid to keep hoping that, somehow, they were mistaken. Even when she finds out that Severus was the one to blast off George’s ear, even when she hears about the state of Hogwarts from Ginny. She has always held out hope, and though he isn’t her flesh and blood she feels the same obligation towards him as she does Percy. Whether they’ve truly turned away from her or they’re simply misguided, she is their mum, and she can’t stop loving and hoping that they come back home.

Still, it will take a miracle, she thinks, for Severus to return to her.

* * *

The night after the Battle of Hogwarts, Molly answers a knock on her door to find Severus there, clutching the soaked bandage on his neck and looking half dead. She’s too shocked to do anything but stare.

“I thought you were dead,” she says at last, her voice weaker than she would like. He swallows, wincing slightly as it pulls at the wound.

“I didn’t,” he says. “I… I swear, I wasn’t-“ She catches him as he wavers.

“Shh, I know,” she says. “Harry told us. I know you were on our side.” He nods, too exhausted to do anything else. “Come now, let’s get you inside.”

She half drags him to the couch, laying him on his side and tending to his wounds as she’s done so many times before. He’s exhausted, entire body trembling with pain, forehead hot and sticky with fever. He’s hurt, hurt in a way that won’t be easily repaired, but it’s alright.

Her couch is his, for as long as he needs it.


End file.
